


Mirror Mirror

by pasiphile



Series: This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Sebastian, over the years. As different as they are the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as These Violent Delights, but can be read separately. Ties in with Origin Stories and Before The World Was Made
> 
> thank you to koni for betaing!
> 
> WARNINGS: racism (& colonialism), child abuse (neglect, physical, emotional, reference to sexual), paedophilia, psychological issues & mental disorders (bipolar in particular), blasphemy, underaged sex (16 years old, also implied earlier), teenage pregnancy, teacher/student relationships, implied/referenced noncon, attempted sexual assault, abortion (both the medical and the improvised kind), drugs use and addiction, prostitution, suicide, character death

 

**_1974: British Deputy High Commission, Madras, India_ **

“I’m pregnant,” Helen says, one hot morning at the breakfast table.

“I see,” Augustus replies, taking a spoonful of chutney. “How far gone are you?”

“Two, three months?”

Augustus looks up, raising an eyebrow. That kind of inexactitude is uncharacteristic for his wife.

Helen shrugs. “I’ve always been irregular. I assumed it was the stress of the move, the new country, the heat. But apparently it wasn’t.”

“Does anyone know?” he asks, gently tapping his spoon against the edge of his plate.

“I haven’t told anyone, obviously. The maid will see the tests, though.”

“Hm,” Augustus says, studying his wife.

Children were never part of the deal. They’d agreed on that, during their marriage negotiations. It hadn’t even been a point of contention: they both knew that the lifestyle they were heading for was too chaotic, too dangerous, for a child to be involved. The Moran line would have to be continued by some distant cousin.

But people could change their opinions, and women could be so sentimental about those kind of things…

“Do you want to keep it?” he asks carefully.

Helen stares at him for a few moments, then throws her head back and laughs. “Good _lord_ no,” she says, still chuckling.

Augustus sighs in relief. He should have known better; he’s never met anyone as ruthlessly pragmatic as his wife.

He nods. “I’ll make inquiries, find someone qualified. And discreet.”

“Do hurry up, dear,” she says, her smile slightly strained. “I want to get this over with as soon as possible.”

***

Two days later they get a call from Augustus’ mother, congratulating them on the pregnancy.

“Well, fuck,” Helen says, eloquently.

“That damn maid.”

“We should have seen this coming.” Helen sighs and puts her hand on her stomach. Is the slight swell merely his imagination, or is it there already?

“We could carry on with the plan,” he says, watching her. “People have miscarriages all the time.”

“No, she’d know. The damn harpy.” She glances at him, and adds, wryly, “No disrespect to your mother, of course.”

“Disrespect all you want, dear,” he says absently. “So, we are… we’re going to through with it?”

“Seems like it.” She pulls a face. “We’re having a child, Gus.”

 

 

**1978: Merchant’s Quay, Dublin, Ireland**

“I’m too young for this shit,” Emma says, hand pressed against her back.

She’s sixteen and she’s pregnant and she’s giving birth in some mould-covered stinking attic and she’s _too young for this shit_.

“I should have gone to fuckin’ England when I still could,” she says, panting through the pain.

“With what money, love?” Roisin says, reasonably.

Emma doesn’t want _reasonably_. She wants to rage and scream and kick the world into pieces.

“I should have,” she says, after another contraction tears through her body. “Or I should have done it meself. Knitting needle, easy peasy, gone stupid _fucking_ baby.”

“Like Eileen?” Roisin points out.

Emma closes her eyes. Eileen, who did take a knitting needle and did it wrong and punctured her fucking bladder, who’s in the hospital with a massive infection and _still_ pregnant and a furious pimp waiting for her when she gets out.

“I don’t _want_ this,” she says. She wipes at her face.

“Don’t cry, love,” Roisin says, touching her shoulder.

She shakes Roisin off. “I’m not cryin’,” she snaps. “I’m not sad, I’m fucking _furious_.”

She hadn’t even been on the game that long, a few months, and bang, pregnant. It isn’t fair.

“It _isn’t fair_ ,” she yells. “I’m going to fuckin’ _murder_ whoever fathered this fucking thing.”

“You don’t know who did, love,” Roisin says, still so fucking sensible.

“I don’t give a fuck, I’ll kill ‘em all, good fucking riddance, I’ll – ” and then another contraction kicks her in the womb but this time –

“Alright love,” Roisin says, looking up her skirt. “You’ve got to push now.”

She’s been in pain for fourteen hours, yelling and screaming and raging the whole damn fucking time, but now she has to push and she doesn’t want to because then she’ll go from _pregnant_ to _mother_ and she _doesn’t want this_.

“Push, for fuck’s sake!” Roisin yells.

And she pushes, wailing like a banshee – she can’t fight this, can’t fight her own body, can’t go against this just as much as she can’t go against the heroin. Roisin says something, she can’t hear what, and she pushes again and her body feels like it’s being torn in two and then, it’s –

She holds her breath. For a moment she can’t even feel the pain.

The world feels like it’s on pause.

“Wh-"

And a tiny cry pierces the silence. “It’s a boy, Em,” Roisin says, laughing. “You’ve got a little boy.”

Emma reaches out, half-blind, and weight is put in her arms and there he is. A tiny dirty scarlet screaming human, kicking his little legs against her chest.

“He’s _tiny_ ,” she says, and frantically she checks the fingers and the toes and his tiny little back. She’s seen babies, she’s seen her niece and her nephews, and none of them were this small. “Is he alright, Roisin?” Emma asks, panicked.

“He’s perfect, love,” Roisin says, smiling. Roisin has two kids, lost another one, she knows about this.

Emma relaxes a little and looks at the little scrunched up face. He’s still screaming, so _loud_ for such a little thing. Angry. Like she is.

It’s funny, she never thought about the kid in her belly as anything but a bloody burden, but –

He’s a person. Fucked as much as she is. Of course he’s angry, nothing about this is his fault, is it?

“What are you going to call him, then?” Roisin asks.

She pulls him close and he stops crying, hiccoughing. His tiny fist flails, lands against her breast.

“James.”

 

 

**_1981: British High Commission, Islamabad, Pakistan_ **

“ _Ishq par zor nach_ – ”

“ _Naheen_ ,” Padma corrects, and the boy looks up.

“ _Naheen_.”

She smiles at him. “Well done.”

“So _Ishq_ means _love_ ,” Seb says, brow furrowed. “But _mohabbot_ is _love_ too, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There are many words for love, because there are many kinds of love.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, his little face scrunched up in frustration. He’s such a curious boy, always wanting to know everything, to _understand_.

“There’s love between husband and wife – ”

“Like mama and papa?” he asks.

“Yes,” Padma says, even though she has never seen even the slightest sign of love between those two. “And there’s the love of a brother for a sister. The love of friends. The love of a parent for a child.”

“Like you love me?” he asks, shyly.

She smiles and presses a kiss on his sun-bleached hair. “Yes. Now go to sleep, _jaaneman_. It is past your bedtime already.”

“ _Shaab bakhair_ ,” he mumbles, and she doesn’t have the heart to correct them. Besides, English sounds so harsh, formal, cold. It fits lord and lady Moran, sure enough, but it doesn’t fit the sensitive young boy in her care.

She tucks him in and tiptoes to the hallway, then closes the door behind her.

“Don’t get too attached.”

She turns around. Lady Moran is watching her, nose in the air, looking down on her as always.

“No, ma’am,” she murmurs, eyes respectfully lowered.

“Milady,” lady Moran corrects, irritated. “And don’t let _him_ get too attached, as well. Augustus’ diplomatic duties here end in less than two years, I don’t want any dramatics.”

“No, ma’am,” she says, and Helen Cavendish-Moran sniffs and turns away. Stuck-up woman.

Padma looks over her shoulder. The door is still closed, but light peeks from underneath.

She opens it. Little Seb falls down on his bum on the carpet, cheeks flushed. _“Maaf kee yeeye ga,_ ” he says, quickly and fluently.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Padma corrects him. “We speak English.”

“I don’t _like_ English,” Seb says, sulking.

“Doesn’t matter, that’s what your people speak. Now up, back in bed with you.”

“I don’t want to be _my_ people, I want to be _your_ people,” he says, trudging back to bed.

“You can’t, _jaan_.”

“Why not?”

“Because we are born with it. You can’t choose.”

He clambers into his bed and she pulls the blanket over him. _You can’t choose_ , but not everyone shares that opinion. Plenty of people think she’s chosen for the English, and in two years she’ll…

She sighs. Seb looks up, those big grey eyes fixed on her. “ _Aayah_?”

“Yes?”

“What mama said,” he says, hesitantly. “That we’ll have to leave…”

“Two years is a long time, _jaan_.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know.” She closes her eyes and kisses his forehead. “But that’s not our choice to make.”

“It’s not fair,” Seb mutters, and she tucks him in and prays to Allah the boy will manage without her.

 

 

**_1982: Merchant’s Quay, Dublin, Ireland_ **

She’s hurting.

She shouldn’t have taken this many punters. Usually she takes more breaks, but she’s behind with her payments and Gareth is pushing her, and she hasn’t shot up properly in ages.

She crosses her legs and winces. It’s worth it. Isn’t it? A bit of soreness, and now she’s got enough money to get ahead.

The door creaks open and a dark little head peeks into the room. “Mam?” a tiny voice asks.

“Come here, Jimmy,” she says, holding out her arm. He pads over to the bed and crawls up. She pulls at his little hand and he curls up against her chest, careful not to hurt her.

He’s always so careful, her Jimmy.

He snuggles his head against her breast and she pets his hair. Dark, like hers, and soft, even if it’s a bit sticky. He needs a wash. When’s the last time she washed him? Or can he do that himself now? He’s four, now, isn’t he, or is he five already?

“’m hungry,” he murmurs.

She pets his back, feels the ribs beneath her palm. Christ, when did he last eat? When did she?

“Think there’s bread in the cupboard, love.”

He slips off the bed and goes to the one tiny cupboard this place has, where she keeps the tin with the money she’s put aside – not that there’s much – and her spare needles. And the food, when she has remembered to get any.

Jimmy pushes a chair in front of the cupboard and crawls up on it. The chair wobbles ominously, but somehow stays upright.

Last week he had tried that and fallen off and his elbow had been bleeding all over the place. Or was that last month? Either way, he’d been bawling his eyes out until she’d shaken him and told him to be _quiet_.

Just like her mam had used to.

“It’s blue,” he says, studying the bread.

“Come here, love.”

He gets back to her. She peels the mould off and breaks off a clean piece, puts it in his pink little mouth. He looks more like a kitten than anything else.

As he’s chewing, his eyes go to her arms. Bruised, of course – although this time there are a few finger-bruises there as well, a punter who got carried away.

“Why do they hurt you?” he asks, seriously. His dark eyes go to hers – her own eyes, her sister’s eyes, but _god_ they’re bleak. They don’t belong in a face that young.

“Because they’re arseholes,” she says, handing him another piece of bread.

He considers this, turning the bread in his tiny little fingers. “They shouldn’t,” he decides. “It’s bad.”

“Yeah, Jimmy, but that doesn’t stop them.” She runs a hand through her hair, greasy and unkempt. “The world isn’t fair.”

He frowns and puts his small hand tenderly on one of her bruises, as if he wants to comfort her, his little face oddly angry -

\- and something breaks inside of her. She grabs her boy and pulls him close against her chest, and he wraps his arms around her and holds her tight, his face buried into her shoulder.

She hit him. Three nights ago – that she remembers clearly. He’d snuck up unseen while Gareth was collecting her money and suddenly Jimmy had been there and she’d been so shaken and surprised she’d slapped him. Hard, too.

He hadn’t cried. He had just slunk out of the room again, hand against his red cheek, eyes down.

She kisses his head. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I'm sorry that I can't - that I, you- should never have - I'm sorry, sorry - ”

“'s alright,” he says, in that high soft breathy voice, and she squeezes her eyes shut and pulls him even closer.

 

 

**_1983: Consulat Général de France, Brussels, Belgium_ **

There’s someone standing in the middle of the room.

Helen freezes in the doorway, her heart beating overtime with adrenaline, but then the man turns and she recognises her husband. She breathes out in relief and closes the door behind her.

“Did you find it?” Gus asks.

She nods, running a hand through her hair. “All there, and now…” She smiles and taps her temple. “All here.”

“And are you alright?”

A man who knows his priorities, her husband. “Bit of excitement at the office door - the lock refused to cooperate, almost got caught - but it all turned out fine.”

He gives her a critical look. “Your hair looks a little…” He gestures with his hand.

“Ah, yes.” She walks to the mirror and starts an attempt to save her coiffure. “Any problems on this end?” she asks, glancing at Gus’ mirror image.

“No. The ambassador to Austria came by to ask where you’d gone off to - made an impression there, my dear - but apart from that no one seems to have noticed you disappeared.”

She smiles. “And what did you say to dear old Heinrich?”

“That you were feeling unwell and had retired to bed. It’ll give us an excuse to leave tomorrow.”

“Excellent. So we’re left with – ”

The door opens. The both whirl, and Helen starts making up excuses in her head - so what if a married couple sneaks out and ends up looking a little dishevelled - but the person who comes in is no threat. 

"What are you doing out of bed?" Helen snaps, looking at the serious little face. Such a strange boy, their son, not at all like other children his age. "It's past your bedtime. We have to find a better nanny," she adds to Gus. "This isn't the first time she's let him slip away."

"We'll see," Gus says. "Well, Sebastian? Why are you out of bed?"

Sebastian looks down and mumbles something.

"Speak up, lad," Helen says, irritated.

"Because I couldn't sleep," Sebastian says, eyes still on the floor. "I - I wanted you to read me a story."

Helen sighs and runs a hand over her face. "We haven't got time for that, dear, we've got more important things to do. Ask Emily."

"She's  _boring_ ," he whines. "My Aayah had much better sto-"

“Sebastian,” Gus says sharply. "Stop complaining and go back to bed."

Sebastian’s grey eyes go to Gus, and then to her. He cocks his head, frowning a little. “Why is mama’s hair all messy?” he asks, ignoring the order.

“That’s grown-up business, dear,” Helen says, firmly. “Go back to your room.”

Sebastian chews his lip, undeterred. “And why aren’t you with the other guests? I thought you weren’t allowed in the other rooms.”

Gus twitches. “ _Bed_ , Sebastian. We have no time for your childish imaginations.”

“But – ”

“ _Now_.”

He grits his teeth, an oddly adult characteristic on a boy that young.

Only two weeks ago he had deliberately set fire to Gus’ desk, and the thrashing he’d got in reaction to that had been enough to _finally_ quiet the endless nagging and needling from their son.

The effects of it seem to have worn off, though. Sebastian gives them both a look that contains no fear at all, only suspicion and – is that dislike?

But then he turns and closes the door behind him.

Helen sighs and leans back against the dresser. “Well.”

“Is it me,” Gus asks, “or is he getting smarter by the day?”

“Considering who his parents are,” Helen says, smiling slightly.

Gus’ frown doesn’t disappear. “He’s becoming a risk.”

“Oh, calm down, darling.” She turns to the mirror and goes back to fixing her hair. “A few more years and he’ll be at Eton, safe from all this.”

He doesn’t reply. She looks over her shoulder to see him stare at the door, thoughtful, even a little sad.

“Everything alright, dear?” she asks, surprised.

Gus looks up. “Do you think he’ll miss us?” he asks. “Sebastian, I mean. When we send him to school.”

She shrugs. “That’s not the point, is it?”

“We should never have had him,” he says, sighing.

“Well, no. But it’s too late now to do anything about it.” She pushes a strand of hair up and fixes it with a pin. “Let’s just make the best of a difficult situation.”

 

 

**_1984: Ballymun, Dublin, Ireland_ **

“Why did she die?”

It’s a question they’ve all come to hate, in the last few days. Siobhan turns away and pretends to ignore him.

God, she liked it better when he wasn’t talking at all.

“Why did she die?” Jimmy asks Sean, and Sean, deeply annoyed, snaps, “Because she was a whore.”

Jimmy frowns. “But _why_?” he asks, and Sean shoves him hard and leaves him behind on the floor.

He doesn’t _cry_ , Jimmy. It would be easier if he cried. It would be easier if he played along with them, if he laughed, if he talked to them, if he walked normally instead of sneaking everywhere, silent as death.

But he doesn’t. He’s _weird_ , plainly said, and he’s freaking them all out.

“Should have never taken him in,” Mam mutters, and out of the corner of her eye Siobhan can see Jimmy look up, listening.

It’s not right.

“Why did she die?” Jimmy asks Siobhan, that night in their shared room.

She shrugs. “I don’t know, Jimmy. It’s just – it’s what people do. Die. When their time’s come.”

“But who _decides_ when their time’s come?”

He doesn’t talk like a five-year old, Jimmy. He sounds older, strange.

“God,” Siobhan says, deciding on the easiest answer.

Jimmy stays silent for a bit, frowning, and then he says, “But what did mam do that made God angry?”

“It’s – ”

“Because she was a whore?”

She never, _ever_ wants to hear the word _whore_ from a five-year old. It feels wrong.

God, no wonder Mam hates the kid.

“No, Jimmy. She… made a mistake.”

She OD’ed on heroin. None of them had asked if it was an accident or not.

“And that’s why she had to die?”

“No, that’s not – it’s complicated, alright? Too complicated for a child.”

He rolls onto his side, his back to her. Sulking.

She sighs and gets out of bed, kneels down next to the thin mattress he’s sleeping on. “Look, Jimmy, I’m sorry,” she says. She touches his thin shoulder and he pulls away, instinctively.

He had bruises, when they first brought him here. She tries not to think about that too much.

"Jimmy?" she tries again, making sure her voice is soft, gentle, non-threatening - a trick her mother and her brothers don't seem to know about.

He rolls over, watching her. His eyes look too big for his face.

“I… don’t have the answers,” she says.

Jimmy smiles, small and strange, and says, “Because you’re too stupid.”

She gives him an angry shove and stands back up. “Little _freak_ ,” she hisses, and he turns back onto his side. Silent, not even crying, like a normal kid would.

She runs a hand over her face and sighs, already regretting the shove, the insult. If he was normal she'd just give him a cuddle and tell him sorry, and that all would be right. But... He isn't, is he? Normal? And she doesn't have a clue how to deal with this. Him.

Maybe they just found him in Auntie Emma’s room by accident, maybe he has nothing do with them at all. Maybe he’s just a stray.

It’s really fucking hard to believe he’s supposed to be her cousin.

 

 

**_1986: Ballina Hall, Buckinghamshire, United Kingdom_ **

Helen isn’t looking at him.

She’s being subtle about it, though, because she’s still _Helen_. She doesn’t do open conflict, a true child of the Cold War. Instead, she fights underhandedly, quietly, unnoticed until it's too late - there's a reason his wife is so good at her job.

And Sebastian is looking between them, those sharp grey eyes noting every twitch, every forced smile. But he keeps quiet, thank God.

“So, how’s the semester been?” Helen asks Sebastian, resorting to the blandness of everyday life to cover up the turmoil beneath.

“Alright,” he says, with an awkward half-shrug. “Bit boring, though. My French is _much_ better than the others’, I’m getting A’s without having to do any work at all.”

Augustus tries to catch Helen’s eye. She pointedly ignores him. “That’s nice, dear,” she says, on automatic.

“Can you pass me the salad, dear?” Augustus asks.

Helen calmly gets the bowl and passes it over. “There you are,” she says, in her chilliest tones.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Sebastian frowning at them.

“Thank you,” he says, and if his voice sounds colder than it usually does, well, so be it. If she insists on being stubborn.

“I also set fire to the gym,” Sebastian says.

Helen’s eyes go to Augustus. It’s a glare, as subtle as can be. Looking daggers. “The cook did a lovely job,” she says, but she might as well have said _fuck off and die_ , for all the warmth in her voice.

A clatter makes them both look up. Sebastian has jumped up, plate fallen to the floor. “What’s the _point_ of letting me come back if you’re simply going to ignore me all the time?” he asks, his voice shaking with anger. “You should have just left me at school.”

“No one’s in Eton over the holidays,” Augustus says, before he can think if that’s really a good idea.

Sebastian’s ice-grey eyes go to him, and Augustus blinks, startled. The last time he’d seen that kind of hostility, it had been in the KGB spy they’d been interrogating.

“Ah, well, glad we cleared that up,” Sebastian says, with a sarcasm that doesn’t fit his age. “God forbid I would think you actually _want_ me here. _Kar hii_ – ”

“ _English_ ,” Helen snaps.

Sebastian glares at her. “Fuck. This,” he says, enunciating clearly, and then he turns on his heel and storms out.

“It’s his age,” Augustus says, in an attempt at reassurance.

Helen gives him a cool look back and continues chewing her meat in a strangely resentful manner.

 

 

**_1988: Churchtown, Dublin, Ireland_ **

He isn’t what she expected.

He isn’t their first foster child, but all the others had been – angry, rude, distrustful. Tiny little balls of anger, lashing out at everything and everyone, hard and shameless, shouting more often than not.

Jimmy, on the other hand, is quiet and calm, composed, attentive. Extremely well-behaved, so far. Although he _is_ distrustful - she’s never been looked at with such scrutiny before.

“Can you read, love?” Elaine asks, gently. The papers say he’s ten years old, but he looks younger, and she has learned never to assume.

“Of course I can fucking _read_ ,” he says, with an expression of adult disdain that looks comical on his pale little face. So much for politeness - although the expletive doesn’t sound particularly vicious; it’s more like he seems to think cursing is just a normal part of speech.

“We don’t use swear words in this house,” she says, still gentle. “Will you try that for us, please?”

His dark eyes skip over her face. “Try?” he echoes, softly. Insecure? Surprised? Or mocking?

“Yes, _try_.” She smiles at him. “It’s hard, sometimes, adjusting. We know, darling.”

He gives her a highly sceptical look. And, well, who can blame him for that? Born and raised in a drugs den, neglected and underfed, then shipped away to abusive relatives… Where would he have learned kindness, or trust?

She clears her throat. “So, will you show me? Your reading?”

He nods. She hands him a book. It’s one of those simple start-to-read things, just in case he was lying about his skills. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He gives the book a look and his lips curls. His eyes meet hers – they’re dark, and hostile, and give away nothing – and he shoves the book aside, in an obvious gesture of contempt.

“Won’t you – ” she starts, but before she can finish he stands up. He goes over to the bookcase, pulls a book out, and pads back to the table. She gives his choice a curious look.

Milton. She smiles. “I think that’s a bit too – ”

He flips it open. “Thus these two Imparadis't in one anothers arms,” he starts, without a second of hesitation. “The happier Eden shall enjoy their fill of bliss on bliss, while I to Hell am thrust, where neither joy, nor love, but fierce desire among our other torments not the least, still unfulfill'd with pain of longing pines –” He stops and looks up at her. “That’s Lucifer,” he says. “Being envious of Adam and Eve, who get the bliss and joy and peace that’ve been denied to him, who can love while he can only desire, without being ever fulfilled. Milton’s not doing a very good job of making the devil unsympathetic, is he?”

She stares at him. He looks back, a tiny little smirk on his lips.

The door swings open and Michael steps in. Jimmy’s head snaps up, in that typical hyper-alert watchfulness she’s seen in so many abused children.

“Hullo, you two,” Michael says, smiling. “How is it going here?”

“Jimmy is reading to me from Paradise Lost,” she says, and Michael’s mouth falls open.

***

They decide it’s a good idea to get Jimmy’s IQ tested. They try to explain it to him to the best of their ability, but he still seems suspicious.

“What if I fail?” he asks.

“It’s not a thing you can fail, Jimmy,” Michael says, patient and kind like only he can be. “It’s more like – like measuring your height. We just need to know how quickly you can think, so we can get you in the right school, find the right teachers for you. Okay?”

Eventually he agrees.

The psychologist spends an hour in the living room with Jimmy, alone, before she comes out again and tells them she’ll have to come back with another test.

“Was something wrong with the test?” Elaine asks, uneasy. Michael squeezes her shoulder.

“No, the problem wasn’t the test. It’s _him_.”

Elaine breathes in sharply. “What – ”

“Not a _problem_ problem, of course,” the psychologist hurries to explain. “There’s no need for worry. It’s just that… Well, the test I used now is one that’s used for children between six and sixteen, but it’s a bit too easy for Jimmy. He maxed out the scores, so the results aren’t that reliable. The adult version might be better suited for him.”

Elaine takes Michael’s hand. “So you mean he’s…”

“Gifted, yes. I’ll have to do the other test before we know exactly to what extent, but…” She smiles again. “You’ve got a very clever lad in there. At least a few years ahead of his peers, cognitively speaking.”

“Right,” Elaine says, a little thrown.

The psychologist shakes their hands and leaves again, taking her little briefcase with her.

Michael exchanges a look with her. “So.”

She holds up a finger to her mouth. Michael nods, something sad in his eyes.

She reaches for the door to the living room and pulls it quickly open. Jimmy hasn’t reached his chair yet, although he still tries to pretend he’s innocent, turning casually and giving them a politely interested look.

“You don’t have to eavesdrop, love,” Elaine says, and his eyes go sharp. “If you want to know something, you can just ask.”

He smiles, again. It isn’t a nice-looking smile, especially not on a boy of that age. “And why would you tell me the truth?”

It’s like a tiny hot needle pierces her heart – he’s _ten years old_ , for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t be this cynical. No one ever should ever be that cynical, as a matter of fact.

“Because that’s what we do here, Jimmy,” Michael says, calmly. “We don’t lie.”

He laughs, hard and yelping. “Everyone _lies_. But fine. Tell me what she said.”

She thinks about telling him to add a _please_ , before dismissing it. Time and place. “The test isn’t suited for you.”

His eyes narrow, and something like panic flies across his face. “Why?”

“You’re too clever for it,” she says, trying to smile at him.

“Oh.” He leans back, considering. “So you’re not…” He hesitates.

It’s a kind of hesitation she’s seen before.

She crosses the room and goes down on one knee in front of him. He lowers his eyes, avoiding her gaze. “Sweetheart,” she says firmly, “We aren’t going to leave you alone, or send you back. We’ll take care of you as long as we can. I promise you. Hey?” She tips his head up.

His dark eyes are dead, flat, cold. She has to hide a shiver.

“Everyone leaves,” he says, and he pulls his chin from her hand. “That’s what people do.”

 

 

**_1989: Belgravia, London, United Kingdom_ **

Augustus’ suit jacket is too small.

It’s been too long since he wore it last, the funeral of his aunt, three years ago. He can’t close the buttons properly now, his stomach straining against the fabric.

It irks him. Helen had always been so appreciative of his style, the care with which he clothed himself. It feels wrong that he should appear slovenly, here, now.

Augustus nods at the vicar, his consoling words not really sinking in, and catches a sigh when he leaves again. Words seem to fall flat. Images are better: the picture of her, smiling in a way she hadn’t in years; the pale lilies; the sober stylish memorial cards… Just like she would have wanted.

He looks around. No one here yet, except for one or two people of the funeral parlour, the vicar’s assistant. And Sebastian, of course, lounging at one of the tables, eyeing up the decorations like he’s considering stealing them. As if he senses his father staring, he raises his head.

Augustus’ eyes meet his son's. He searches for any trace of emotion, anything that shows grief, regret, anger, but there's nothing.

No, there _is_ something. As Sebastian sees Augustus watching, his lip curls in mockery. Disgust.

The doors opens and the people start coming in, and Sebastian schools his face into an expression of restrained grief, but Augustus knows enough of disguises to recognise a perfectly executed fake.

***

He finds Sebastian after the ceremony, leaning against the outside wall, smoking. He looks up when Augustus comes out, but doesn't even bother to hide the cigarette.

He's grown again, lost a bit of his previous lankiness. Fourteen, but he looks closer to eighteen. He’s got Helen’s mouth, expressive, with that full bottom lip, and her high cheekbones. The square jaw is all Moran, though.

"Father," Sebastian says, calmly. "Something up?"

"Why are you outside?"

"Needed a moment to myself." He nods at the hall behind him. "That lot always make my skin crawl."

"That lot's just as much _your_ lot," Augustus says, coldly.

Sebastian gives him a look. "Are they?" he asks, then raises his cigarette to his lips.

"Put that out."

Sebastian drops the cigarette and grinds it out beneath his shoe without protest. His eyes are dry. Voice calm, posture relaxed- like they're just chatting at a casual party, rather than...

“Your mother's dead,” Augustus says bluntly.

Sebastian shrugs, one-shouldered. “I was there at the ceremony, you know.”

“She was your _mother_.”

“Was she?” He looks at Augustus. His eyes are flat grey, the colour of stone, emotionless and cold. “I barely remembered her face, that first year at Eton. Let's face it, father, you weren't very _good_ at being parents.”

“Show her some respect,” Augustus says. His grief is finally starting to break through the surface, and he doesn’t want to show it, not in front of Sebastian and his blank pitiless eyes.

Sebastian laughs. “ _Why_? For giving birth to me? Sure as hell not for _raising_ me, because you decided to outsource that. Very economical, I have to say.”

“We should never have had you,” Augustus blurts out.

Sebastian’s face freezes.

“Yeah,” he says, after a few moments, face still expressionless. “I agree.”

 

 

**_1990: Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland_ **

There are only a handful of students already there when she steps into the classroom, but then again she likes being early, setting up her things. The students watching her while she fiddles and messes about always makes her feel a little nervous.

Not that Dynamics of Stellar Systems is that populated a course.

She puts her bag on the desk, looks around, and pauses, surprised. The door to the side-office is open, and as she looks someone moves behind it.

She blinks. A student prank? She’s not generally the target for those, but why else would someone want to hide in a cupboard during a lecture?

She goes to the side-office and carefully pushes the door open. “Hello?”

No reply.

She goes inside and switches the light on, looks around again. No students lurking, no, nor any wild animals or balloons or exploding equipment. Instead, there’s a boy, half-hiding behind a stack of cardboard boxes, a notepad on his lap. He’s staring at her, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

“Hi,” she says, smiling in what she hopes is a reassuring manner – she’s never been good with kids.

He blinks. “Hi?”

“Got lost?” she asks. “Are you visiting?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, “No. I’m… I wanted to listen in.”

She cocks her head. “To the lecture?” The boy looks young: ten, eleven, something like that? Certainly far too young to be here. “It’ll a bit too complicated for you, lad.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been here the previous times too – don’t, don’t report me, please,” he adds, when he sees her startled reaction.

“But _why_?” she asks. He’s a _child_ , and it isn’t even an introductory course; her lessons should be incomprehensible to anyone but people with advanced knowledge of theoretical physics and mathematics and astronomy.

“’Cause it’s interesting.”

He’s bluffing. Isn’t he? He must be. But why the hell would a kid of his age want to hide in a cupboard during an astronomy lecture?

He chews his lip. “You don’t believe me.”

“Sweetheart, you’re a bit _young_ to – ”

He hands her his notepad. She takes it, after a second of hesitation, and flips through the pages.

She looks up at him. Back at the pages. It’s his hand, a child’s hand, round and a bit wobbly, but – is this a joke? If it is, it’s a very elaborate one.

“You wrote these?”

“Yes.” He takes the pad back. “It’s the Vlasov equations today, isn’t it? I know I’m not supposed to be here, but…”

She nods. “Fine. Listen in.”

And the kid’s face relaxes.

***

After the lecture she goes back to the side-office. The boy is still there, packing up his stuff.

"So, what did you think?" she asks.

"Interesting." He doesn't look up from his bag, head down, avoiding her eyes. Shy?

"Did you understand everything?" she asks, curiously.

He gives her a quick look. "Of course I did."

Bluffing? Not wanting to admit his ignorance? There's no way in hell he got all of her lecture. "Can I see your notes?" she asks.

He looks up, studies her, then pulls his notepad from his bag and hands it to her, careful not to touch her hand.

He doesn’t trust her, she realises suddenly. He reminds her of her sister’s dog, the one they got from the shelter. Skittish and cautious and suspicious, like he’s constantly expecting beatings.

She turns to the notepad. The first few pages are just lecture notes, similar to the ones made by her adult students - although quite a few words are misspelled, written phonetically. The last few pages, though...

"I was, was thinking ahead," the boy says, nervously.

"I can see that." She flips a page. "Oh, you can keep the book, by the way," she adds, still frowning at the notes. Is that... But it can't be, can it?

"What book?" 

She looks up. He's got the skittish-puppy look again, watching her like he's preparing to bolt. "The one you stole from my bag while I was outside during the break."

He continues to stare at her. 

"You can keep it, I've got another copy in my office." She smiles. "If I can keep this," she adds, waving the notepad.

The cautious stare turns into a frown. "Why?"

"As a trade? I'll correct them for you, if you - "

"Why," he says again, voice suddenly hard and a lot more adult-sounding than she'd expect from a boy that age.

So she tells the truth. "There might be some publishable material in here."

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Blink rapidly, then licks his lips.

"Of course, it would have to be under my name," she continues. "Nobody would take the theories of a ten-year old boy seriously, but if I can..." She trails off. A hard, cruel smile has appeared on the boy's face.

"Oh," he says, and then he laughs. " _Oh_. That's why. Should've guessed."

She lowers the notepad, unease creeping up on her. He's just a kid, no reason to feel afraid, but... He's not just a  _boy_ , though, is he? The notes in her hands prove that. "Sorry?"

"I don't mind," he says, with a shrug. "I'm not exactly interested in a career in academia, so go ahead, steal my ideas all you want. Let me know how impressed your peers are."

"I - It's not stealing," she says, thrown. "I just wanted to - "

He snorts. "Please, spare me the lies, I've had enough of those to last a lifetime. Take what you want, I don't care."

"Why?" she asks.

And now it's his turn to look a little surprised. "What?"

"If you're not interested in academics, if you don't care about being published, why are you here?"

Something flickers in his eyes, quickly hidden again. "I like learning," he says.

“So why astronomy?” she asks, needling, because she doesn't  _get_ it, doesn't understand him. "Why not something else? Languages, engineering, something you can use?"

“Because it’s…” He hesitates, looks away. As if he's uncomfortable.

“Go on," she says, in an attempt at reassurance. "I promise I won’t laugh.”

“You can’t promise that,” he says, and there's that hard, mocking smile again. “And, well, astronomy… It’s something pure. Untouchable.” He looks up at her, oddly serious. “Something beyond our control. Something that doesn’t give a fuck about humanity. We could all die out and the planets would still continue to turn.” He smiles again. “And it’s powerful, of course.”

“Powerful?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t get a little shiver when you teach black holes. The all-devouring energy.”

“I… honestly hadn’t thought about it like that,” she says, frowning. _Shy_ , she had thought, but this is - is something else entirely.

“Yeah, thought not.” He swings his backpack over his shoulder and turns. “I’ll be back next week," he says casually. "Who knows, might have some more interesting  _theories_ for you to nick."

"You're welcome."

He pauses and looks over his shoulder. "Pardon?"

"You're welcome, here," she says again. "Whether you have theories or not. And I'll come a bit earlier, if you want."

"Why?" he asks, immediately. Suspicious again.

"So if you've got questions, I can answer them."

His dark eyes skip over her face, dissecting her with a sharpness that leaves her feeling more than a little uneasy. 

And then, suddenly, he turns and disappears down the hallway.

She shivers. Scary lad.

 

 

**_1991: Eton College, Berkshire, United Kingdom_ **

“See you next week,” Dana says, “and don’t forget chapter five!” And the boys troop out of the room.

She leans down and puts her papers back into her bag. Her throat feels a bit sore, which might be a problem. Only last month she had to cancel a class because her voice had given out.

Just another thing to worry about. Christ, her life is a mess.

“’Fraid I took a bit of liberty and skipped ahead,” a lazy voice says above her. She grits her teeth and straightens up, running her hand through her hair.

Moran is standing at her desk, hands in his pockets, smiling. “Sorry?” she says, in what she hopes is a stern teachery kind of voice.

Judging by his amused smile, it didn’t work. “Chapter five. I got a little… drawn-in, I suppose, and read the entire thing.”

“Did you?” she asks, sceptical. “And what did you think?”

“Honestly?” He shrugs. “That Tolstoi can’t write women.”

“Really?” A strand of her hair escapes again and she tucks it behind her ear. “How so?”

“They revolve entirely around the men in their life, they’ve got practically no motivations of their own. I mean, sure”-he waves a hand-“you can argue that it’s the era, women being discriminated against and being prohibited from taking up their autonomy, that sort of thing, but… Seems kinda misogynist.”

“Did you get that from a book?” she asks, amused.

Moran laughs. “Am I being that unbelievable?”

“A sixteen-year old boy discussing the feminist implications of Russian literature? A little.”

“You shouldn’t be so prejudiced,” he says, with a judging cluck of his tongue. “So, do you like him? Tolstoi?”

“He’s… a brilliant writer, whose storytelling and -  ”

“That’s not what I asked,” he interrupts her, smiling slightly.

“Fine,” she says, returning the smile. “No, I don’t like him, and I agree with you. If you didn’t get that commentary from a book, you got it from my notes.”

“I swear I didn’t,” he says, raising his hands in innocence. “It’s just… Well, just once I would like to see a fictional woman who _doesn’t_ obsess over what men think or feel or do with her.”

“Then read Jeanette Winterson.”

“I did.” He smiles again.

He doesn’t look sixteen. He looks older. He sounds older. Like he’s an entirely different species than the other boys in his class.

“Although," he continues, his eyes glinting, "maybe I’m talking to the wrong person."

“Sorry?”

He leans back against the desk and puts his hand on the surface, not that far from where her own hand is resting. “Well, you are teaching in an all-boys school, so maybe you’re just another one of those women whose life revolves entirely around the lives of men.”

“I’m not fictional,” she says, smiling. “And do you really think all my motivations revolve around you lot?”

“And that husband of yours, of course.”

The smile slips from her face.

“Mind you,” he says, eyes fixed on her, “switch it around and it can just as well be thought of as _power_. Having all those men around you, being able to influence their lives…”

“I…”

His hand creeps closer to hers. “Or don’t you feel powerful, Dana?” he asks, softly.

She stares at his hand. _Sixteen_ , she screams at herself. _Sixteen he’s six-fucking-teen get a hold of yourself_.

“ _La belle dame sans merci_ ,” Moran adds, pronouncing the French flawlessly.

She looks up at him. He’s watching her far too intently; she can’t remember _ever_ being studied like that. “Been keeping up with your French lessons, then?” she manages.

“Another woman who’s entirely defined by her relationship to men. But I think I prefer her.” He smiles again, giving her a look from underneath his eyelashes, and moves his hand a little.

His little finger touches hers.

It feels like an electric shock.

She hasn’t had sex with Frank in five months, and she doesn’t even mind, doesn’t miss her husband huffing and puffing on top of her.

But this?

“I’m sure you can empathise,” Moran continues. His nail slowly traces over the side of her finger. “Being able to bring down men with nothing but a smile, a look…”

“I’m not that kind of woman,” she says. _Sixteen. A child. Half your age. Don’t._

He isn’t acting like a child, though.

“No?” Moran says, and – and the cheeky little bugger goes down on his knees in front of her.

She gasps and looks at the door – closed, key turned. “Get _up_ ,” she hisses.

“Not enjoying the feeling?” he asks, eyes glittering. His hands take the back of her knees and she almost moans at the touch.

Frank has never made her feel anything even _close_ to this.

She gasps for breath. “You’re being – ”

“Shush.” He leans in, his breath warm against her skin. “Stop overthinking this.” He presses his lips against the skin just above her knee, below the hem of her sensible skirt, and she sighs, eyes falling closed.

She has always scoffed at those Victorian heroines, swooning at a simple kiss of the hand, a stray touch, but _god_ she understands now.

Moran’s hands slide slowly up. “If – ” she says, traitorous voice shaking, “if this is some kind of _bet,_ I swear to god - ”

He laughs, breath tickling the short hairs on her thigh. “Oh, please. You think I want to impress _them_? I don’t give a fuck about what they think.”

“Then – then why?” She leans back on her hands and tries, honest to god _tries_ to pull away.

He looks up at her, thumb tracing the crease where her thigh meets her hip, those strange light-grey eyes dark with lust. “Because I want you,” he says, simply.

And she closes her eyes.

 

 

**1991: St Nicholas Church, Galway, Ireland**

There’s a boy in the church.

Not that that’s so unusual. Visitors happen often enough: people seeking counsel from their priest outside the services, or having a late-night crisis of faith, or suddenly discovering an irrepressible need to confess – it’s all happened before. But those visitors are generally a bit older than the lad in the church, staring up at the crucifix.

Richard coughs, discreetly. The boy looks at him and Richard recognises Mary’s new foster child.

The lad has been a regular visitor of the church in the last few weeks, seemingly fascinated by the paintings, the ceremonies, the ritual. And eager for the occasional theological discussion as well, whenever Richard has the time for it.

Bright lad. Trying to convince Mary to let him be confirmed, as far as Richard has gathered.

He goes up to the boy and stands next to him, looking up at the Christ.

“Do you ever wonder how this looks to outsiders, Father?” Jimmy asks. “How we hang up images of a tortured dying man and celebrate it?”

Typical question for him, that one. Always sharp and insightful and just slightly challenging. “All images look strange without the context behind them, Jimmy,” Richard says. “And we don’t celebrate the suffering, or death – ”

“No, we celebrate the sacrifice. Still rather twisted, if you ask me.” He looks up. Like a pale, dark-haired angel, wise beyond his years, carrying anger and grief with him, all carefully guarded. All of Mary’s foster children have had that air, of being scarred by their pasts, but none of them carried it with them quite the way Jimmy does.

“Jesus Christ died for our sins,” Richard says. “The crucifix is just a reminder of that. His sacrifice, like you said. That’s something we should remember, respect. The ultimate act of love.”

“What, death?” Jimmy says, with an odd look in his eyes. “Pain? Love is being tortured?”

Richard considers his words carefully, before saying, “It’s taking up someone else’s burden, helping them carry it.”

“Oh, is that what it is,” Jimmy says, sounding almost mocking. “Okay, fine, but what about the martyrs? That’s glorification of suffering – there’s no other way to interpret that.”

Richard hides a smile. Jimmy has this way of talking that feels more suited to a crusty middle-aged academic than to the high piping voice of a twelve-year old boy.

“It’s about conviction,” Richard says. “And belief. And love, again. It’s a proof of love and devotion, in a way.”

Jimmy pulls a face. “Willingness to suffer doesn’t prove anything much, if you ask me. Apart from masochism, of course.”

“So you don’t believe that love can make someone give up everything?” Richard asks, looking down at Jimmy. “That someone would be willing to go through pain and suffering for the sake of what they love?”

Jimmy sneers. “It’s a pretty story.”

Richard blinks, startled.

In the weeks he’s known Jimmy, the lad has never been anything but polite, courteous, intelligent, eager to learn. This vicious sarcasm, this _cruelty_ , is something entirely new, and more than a little worrying. The boy is more lost than he thought.

“So what about penance?” Jimmy asks, sharply. “Isn’t that what this is all about? If we only suffer enough, if our pain is deep enough, we can be absolved. Sins wiped out.” He looks up at Richard, eyes flaring.

Such dark eyes, he has.

“What would a boy like you have to be absolved of?” Richard asks, mildly.

Jimmy laughs. “You have no idea what I’ve done, Father.” He sobers and looks up at the Christ again. “Anyway, some sins can’t be forgiven, isn’t that right? Some things are so bad not even Jesus’ blood and tears are enough to wash them away.”

“That’s…” He hesitates. “Mortal sins, but even they can be absolved, if the contrition is true, the intent pure. You’ve got nothing to worry about, lad.”

“Haven’t I?” Jimmy says softly, eyes still on the Christ’s face.

“Jimmy…” He puts a comforting hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “You don’t – ”

“Take your fuckin’ hand away.”

Richard freezes.

He can feel the stone gaze of the Christ, boring into him. _Some sins can’t be forgiven_.

“You think I don’t know?” Jimmy continues, a hard smile on his pale face. “What you get up to with the altar boys in the sacristy?”

Richard opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Well, I’m not going to be one of them. So _take your fucking hand away_.”

But Richard still can’t move, too shocked, nailed to the floor.

“Fine. Let me give you some incentive,” Jimmy says, dark eyes fixed on Richard. “If you don’t, I’m going to call child protection services tomorrow. _And_ the media. Tell them all about how one of those noble self-effacing parish priests is a serial child molester. Think you’ll survive the scandal? Will the Church back you up, protect you? If they don’t, you might just end up in prison. Know what they do to kiddie fiddlers in prison, _Father_?”

“ _What_?” Richard croaks.

“You heard me,” Jimmy says, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Richard shakes his head, completely confounded, and grasps at the one straw he can still see. “Who would believe you?” he says, hating himself for it. “A foster child, the son of nobody-knows-who?”

“Try me,” Jimmy says, smile gone, eyes dead.

And Richard slowly takes away his hand.

Jimmy puts his hands in his pockets and looks back at the Christ, almost as if he’s addressing the statue. “Want to know a secret, Father?” he says, smiling, the ice-cold threat completely gone, as if it had never been there. “I don’t give a fuck about redemption. I don’t _want_ the love of God – what’s God ever done for me? God fucked me over before I was even born, why should I want to have anything to do with the bastard?”

“Y- you – ” Richard stutters, completely at sea. “He’s – ”

“What, no comforting words? No reference to Job? Let me tell you, Father: if God makes life hard for those he loves, He must fucking _adore_ me.” He spits on the floor.

“May God have mercy upon your soul,” Richard says, rushed, the old words the only thing he can think of. And they fit, here – if anyone needs God’s mercy it’s this boy, this lost, hurt child.

But Jimmy just laughs, _cackles_ , as if Richard made a hilarious joke.

 

 

**_1992: Ballina Hall, Buckinghamshire, United Kingdom_ **

“He’s interesting,” Rachel says.

Augustus looks up. “Sorry?”

“Your boy. Sixteen?”

“Seventeen, in less than a month.”

“He looks older.”

“He’s aware of that,” Augustus says, dryly.

They look at the crowd amassed in the main hall, chatting quietly, juggling champagne glasses and canapés. Sebastian has insinuated himself into a small group, shoulder-to-shoulder with the ambassador to Sweden. He’s laughing easily, oozing charm.

“He’s got Helen’s charisma,” Rachel says. “Her way with people.”

“Without Helen’s discretion, unfortunately.”

“I've _heard_ about that," she says, grinning. "Surrounded by all kinds of interesting little covered-up scandals, your son. And now I hear he's moved on from his fellow students to his teachers - or is that just mean-spirited gossip?”

Augustus shrugs. “Sebastian appears to be something of an early bloomer. The teacher in question has been sacked, of course.”

“And no punishment for him?”

“He’s not a child anymore. And there isn’t much he sees as punishment. Sebastian simply isn’t – ” He stops.

Rachel smiles. “Susceptible to authority?”

“Something like that.”

“So. Helen’s charm. Your analytical mind – I’ve read some of his school essays, they’re impressive. Your mother’s confidence, obviously, you’ve only got to look at him to see that. And – ”

“My father-in-law’s temper.”

“Really? He’s easily angered?”

Augustus looks back. The group is still there, but Sebastian has disappeared. He frowns, then shakes his head.

“Depends on what you call easily,” he says, turning back to Rachel. “He’s got his pride, Sebastian. Doesn’t like being laughed at. And when you tell him to do something… Well, God help you.”

“Funny.” Rachel tilts her head. “He seems like a very controlled, calm boy to me.”

“ _Controlled_ might be correct. Calm, he isn’t. He’s simply very good at hiding what he feels.”

“Useful quality.” She takes a sip from her port, watching him. “We’re thinking of recruiting him.”

“Sebastian?” He laughs. “Good luck.”

“You don’t think he’d be suited for the work?”

“Oh, he’d be formidable. But he’s likely to sell secrets to the Russians merely to spite us.”

“Still a child after all, then.”

“Unfortunately.” He scans the room again. No sign of Sebastian – gone out for a cigarette, then. Hopefully. Maybe he’s gone to put vodka in the punch, salt on the caviar, some kind of adolescent jape like that - it wouldn't be the first time.

“Have you seen the ambassador’s wife, Augustus?” Rachel asks, frowning.

“Afraid not. If you’ll excuse me…”

He leaves Rachel to look for her quarry and goes to the kitchens. Sebastian isn’t there, and none of the staff claim to have seen him. He isn’t in the gardens, either.

Augustus goes back inside and upstairs. Both bathrooms on the first floor are empty. Would he have gone upstairs? Did he hide a stash of cannabis in the attic? It seems like the kind of thing he would do. Or in one of the guest bedrooms, of course – more likely, more comfort there.

He opens a door. There’s a shriek – ah, so that’s where the ambassador’s wife has disappeared to. She quickly pulls her dress back up and flees the room, diving into the safety of the bathroom to save what’s left her dignity.

Whoever her lover is, he’s making no such retreats. He’s still lying back, trousers undone, shirt open, and then he leans up on his elbows and –

“Hullo, father,” Sebastian says, easily, insolent as can be. Not a trace of embarrassment.

“Put on your clothes,” Augustus grinds out.

“Oops, sorry.” He starts buttoning up his trousers. “Good thing you came in now, a minute later and I think she would have ripped my shirt. Proper little hellcat, that one.”

“You stupid, _stupid_ boy.”

Sebastian looks up, smiling. “How’s that?”

“Do you have any idea what’s at risk here?” Augustus snaps. “What if she says anything?”

“She won’t,” Sebastian says, supremely unconcerned.

“And if her husband finds out? What if they risk a marital crisis because you couldn’t stop thinking with your – ”

“Cock?” Sebastian suggests cheerfully.

“Teenaged libido.”

“He won’t find out.” He hops off the bed and does up his cufflinks. “He’ll be too busy covering up his own indiscretion.”

“Sorry?”

Sebastian grins. “Just sucked his cock behind the kitchens. Don’t you just _love_ hypocrisy?”

Augustus stares at him. “You…”

“Fucked ‘em both. Seemed interesting.” He tucks his shirt back in. “Don’t look so shocked,” he adds, irritably. “You can’t be nearly as much of a prude as you pretend to be.”

“How _dare_ – ”

“What, should I be scared? Of you?” Sebastian gives him a lazy grin. “A fading relic of a bygone age? Or – oh, is that it? Am I disgracing _Mummy_ ’ _s_ – ”

Augustus backhands him.

Sebastian doubles over, hand on his cheek. He wheezes and gets back up, eyes blazing, and for a moment Augustus is convinced he’s going to hit back.

But then Sebastian laughs. “Grew a pair, did you?” he says. “Last time you hit me was seven years ago – taking up old habits, father?”

“Do you even know the meaning of the word _respect_?”

He shrugs. “In theory. Don’t see what it’s got to do with _you_ , though.” He touches his cheek and winces. “This is going to be awkward to explain.”

“You’re going to your room. It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?”

“Ouch.” He takes his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. “If Torben asks for me, send him my love, will you? Or the lovely Mette – they’re a well-matched couple, you know.” And he walks out of the room, whistling.

Augustus stares at the rumpled sheets.

His _son_.

He shudders and goes back outside. Rachel is waiting for him, smiling, head held to one side.

“So that’s where she went off to,” Rachel says. “And she isn’t exactly known for her extramarital liaisons, you know. Your Sebastian must have some tricks up his sleeve.”

“Please don’t make that sound like it’s a compliment,” Augustus says, tiredly.

“It can come in useful.” Rachel shrugs, then pats his shoulder. “Come on, Gus. Let’s get you drunk and you can forget all about that hellspawn of a son of yours.”

 

**_1994: Vauxhall, London, United Kingdom_ **

The problem with doing safe sex promotion outside gay bars is that every quiet space around the actual club tends to be occupied, leaving literally no free peaceful spot for a quick smoke.

Caroline stops at the entrance of the alley and squints against the shadows. The grunting and moaning noises are enough of a hint, of course, and as to confirm that, the shadows shift and she can see two men, pressed against each other.

She turns to leave them in peace, then hesitates. She looks back.

The one against the wall has his wrists pinned above his head, and among the groans she can detect a weak _no_.

She knows about the games people play with sex, roleplay and all that, but… She’s also been a doctor long enough to recognize real fear, real panic.

“Stop,” the man against the wall says, slightly louder. The other man doesn’t react.

Right, that’s enough.

“Oi,” she yells. “Didn’t you hear him?”

They pull apart and look at where she’s standing. She must be outlined against the light, like an avenging angel – albeit one in a leather jacket and torn jeans.

“What?” the one on top barks.

Caroline glares at him. “He said _no_.”

“Who are you, his mum?” he sneers.

“No, but if you don’t bugger off _right now_ I’m going to call my cop friend and have you arrested.”

He gives her a look, then obviously decides it’s too much trouble and pushes off, disappears into the dark.

Caroline turns to the bottom guy and prepares to be the comforting shoulder – a role she’s never been particularly good at it, granted, but she can’t bloody well save him then bugger off again, can she?

The bloke is still leaning against the wall, chest moving rapidly. She takes a few steps closer. “You okay?” she asks, gently.

He pushes off the wall and hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “Fine. Who the hell are you?” He takes a step closer and the light falls on him. He’s younger than she expected him to be.

“Doctor Bramwell,” she says, curtly.

He sweeps his eyes over her, oddly calculating. No need for comforting back-patting here, apparently – either that, or he’s very good at hiding his distress.

“Well, hate to break it to you, _Doctor_ ,” he says lazily, Dublin accent thick and obvious, “but you’re rather the wrong gender for this club.”

“And you’re the wrong age, son. How old are you supposed to be?”

“Twenty-one,” he says, guarded.

She snorts. “I’ll eat my Doc Martens if you’re a day over nineteen.”

“I have the paperwork, if you need the reassurance.”

“Not the point. Go home, son.”

He bounces on his heels. “Haven’t got a home.”

“Then go to wherever you’ve been putting your head down.”

“Ah, well, that’s my problem.” He flashes her a smile. “You see, I’d been planning to go home with that lovely gentleman there”-he nods at the alley-“but that was before you swooped in on your noble white steed to rescue me from his evil clutches. In other words, you stole my room for the night.”

“He tried to rape you,” she says, a little thrown.

The kid shrugs. “So?”

She blinks and takes a step closer, squinting at him. He lifts his chin, curiously defensive.

He’s even younger than she thought – sixteen? Seventeen? Possibly even fifteen. But she recognizes that look in his eyes: no illusions left, no beliefs, no kindness, just violence and power and money. Like some of the kids she used to see at Peckham’s communal health centre.

“Then find a shelter,” she says.

Another grin. “At this hour? They’ve closed up ages ago.”

“Should’ve thought of that earlier, lad.” She hoists her handbag up and turns away, back to the entrance of the club.

“You’re going to leave me here alone, then?” he yells after her. The tone is mocking, but there’s a genuine hint of panic in it.

She turns back, Hippocratic oath flaring through her mind. “You’ve got to have someone you can crash with,” she says.

The kid stares at her, eyes black as a hellpit. “There’s no one,” he says, flatly.

She rolls her eyes and, cursing her own weak-heartedness, says, “Fine, you can stay at my place.”

***

He looks out of place in her flat, dressed as he is, in tight jeans and an open vest, studded belt slung low around his hips, smudged eyeliner and ruffled hair and a soft full mouth – _jailbait_.

He’s right, he wouldn’t have survived alone on the streets.

“What guarantee do I have you won’t shank me in my sleep and run off with the silverware?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“You don’t have any silverware,” he says absently. He’s still tracking the room, eyes skipping over every trinket she has, her discarded clothing, her books lying around. “And I don’t have a knife.” He turns and throws her a flirtatious grin. “You’re welcome to search me, if you want.”

She shakes her head and goes to her sofa, where yesterday’s clean laundry is spread out. “I’ll find you something to wear, you reek like a brewery – are you drunk?”

“No.”

Something in his voice makes her look back.

He has shrugged off the vest, slim pale chest bare, and he’s leaning on one hand, back arched a little, the other hand hooked in his belt, framing his crotch.

She looks at his face. “No,” she says.

Something flashes in the kid’s eyes. “Not your type, am I?” he says. “Doesn’t matter that much. Close your eyes and imagine someone else.” He licks his lips. “I’m _good_ , you kno-”

“ _No_.”

His eyes briefly go to the side, the door, before coming back to her. “I don’t have any drugs.”

“Well, good for you,” she says, frowning – and then the penny drops.

Kids who know the price of everything. Who think everything’s got to be paid for.

“I don’t need anything in return,” she says, slowly.

His eyes skip over her again. He’s got really striking eyes, especially with the eyeliner. Dark, hungry, exacting. “Except for a sudden rise in your feeling of self-worth and usefulness,” he says, with a cruel little smile. “A good Samaritan, are you? I’ve seen your type before.”

“Handy for you, isn’t it?” she says, even though inside she’s a little shocked, a little taken aback at the crude-but-accurate analysis. “Nothing you’ve got to do.”

“Except being grateful and behaving.” He shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

“I believe you. Now get to the bathroom, I’ll give you some clothes.”

He gives her a lazy salute and heads for the bathroom, jeans already halfway down his arse – no underwear, she notices – before he closes the door behind him. No shame at all.

She roots through her clothes and tries to find something that’ll fit him. She isn’t exactly a girly kind of dresser, but he’s still a lot slimmer than her, and a bit shorter.

Eventually she settles on an old track suit that’s getting a bit too small for her. She throws it over her arm and goes to knock at the bathroom door.

The sound of running water stops. “Yeah?”

“Clothes,” she says.

The door swings open and she politely turns her back, eliciting another chuckle from the kid. “Fancy,” he says, sarcastically, as he takes the clothes from her.

“Have you got a name?” she asks.

“Jimmy. And you’re Caroline.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, surprised - luckily he’s already got the track bottoms on. “How do you know that?”

He jerks his head over his shoulder. “Your prescription drugs.”

“Right.” She shakes her head. “Anyway. You can sleep on the sofa. It’s not the most comfortable, but at least it’s better than the streets.”

He shrugs. “I’m used to sleeping rough. A lumpy sofa is pretty much the height of luxury for me.”

She bites her tongue, doesn’t ask the questions she wants to ask. Not her business. “I’d tell you to share my bed, but you might get the wrong idea,” she says instead.

That makes him laugh. “Tempted after all?”

“Not even close, lad.”

“Fine, noted.” He flops down on the sofa and pulls the blanket over him. “Goodnight, Caroline,” he says, eyes closed. “Enjoy the happy buzz of a Good Deed,” and she can practically _hear_ the sarcastic capital letters there.

“Goodnight,” she says, and switches off the lights.

***

She wakes up in the middle of the night, suddenly alert. A noise. From her living room. A burglar? Or – Ah, right, Jimmy.

She gets out of bed and pads to the living room. Jimmy is standing at the window, one shoulder leaning against it, looking out at the city. He should look ridiculous, in that oversized purple track suit, but…

“Everything alright?” she asks, making sure not to sound too accusing.

He hums, not looking back.

She waits.

Eventually he stirs a little. “Want to know a secret, Caro?” he asks, softly.

Only her ex-boyfriend ever called her _Caro_. “What?”

“I’m going to have this.” He nods at the city. “I’m going to take over London. Give me a few years and I’ll _own_ this fucking place.”

“Going into politics, are you?”

He looks over his shoulder and gives her an amused smile. “You know what I mean.”

She does, and it makes her shiver, because the scary thing is that she genuinely _does_ believe him.

“And then what?” she asks.

He blinks. “Sorry?”

“After you’ve won. Then what?”

He licks his lips. “I don’t understand.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “Go to sleep, Jimmy.”

“Can’t,” he says, lips thin. “Thinking. Too busy. I can’t – ” He waves his hand, frustrated. It sets off a little alarm bell in her head.

“You ever been tested, son?” she asks.

He laughs. “I’m clean, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m not enough of an idiot to risk going bareback, so – ”

“I meant psychologically.”

His smile takes on a nasty little edge. “Think I’m mad, do ya?”

“No-o, I think you’re hurting.” She taps her temple. “In here. And that you’ve probably gone through so much shit that anyone would start to – ”

“Go mental?”

“ _Hurt,_ ” she says, firmly.

He scoffs and looks away. “I’m fine.”

“Do you have times when you’ve got trouble getting out of bed? Sleeping? Concentrating? That everything seems bleak and hopeless and nothing’s worth bothering with?”

He turns to look at her, eyes sharp. Listening.

“And are there other times when everything seems possible,” she continues, “when you’re king of the world and your mind’s working overtime and you’ve never felt more _alive_?”

“Maybe,” he says, corner of his mouth turning up. “And what if I do? You going to prescribe me some lithium, Caro?”

“No. But I’m telling you you should see a doctor.”

He grins. “But that’s what I’m doing right now. Or don’t you want me as your patient, Doctor Caroline Bramwell?”

She stares at him. His grin fades, and his eyes take on that hungry, demanding look again.

“Don’t you?” he repeats, soft, deadly serious.

_I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure._

“Yes,” she says, and he closes his eyes.

 

 

**_1996: King Edward VII’s Hospital Sister Agnes, London, United Kingdom_ **

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite health practitioner!”

Rachid closes the door behind him and goes over to the bed, trying – and failing – to suppress his smile.

He didn't want to like Moran, initially. One of the other nurses warned him beforehand that Moran has a habit of being scathingly sarcastic and cruel to people he takes against, which already was enough to make Rachid dislike him. And Rachid's own first impression of Moran was one of extreme irreverence and arrogance, the sort of man who’s used to getting everything he wants, without any trouble along the way.

But - as Rachid discovered –  Moran is also very, well, _personable,_ and charming and funny and extremely intelligent, which is a rarity among servicemen, in Rachid's experience.

The flirting was a surprise as well.

“I bet you’re going to miss this,” Moran says cheerfully, while Rachid tends to the wound on his back. “Me and my muscular shoulders.”

“I see plenty of muscular shoulders, don’t think you’re special,” Rachid says, frowning at the wound. It’s healing up nicely, so far.

“Ah, I’m hurt, Rachid. Here I was, thinking I meant something to you.”

Rachid gives him a look. “All my patients mean something to me.”

“But are they all as _pretty_ as me?” Moran asks, grinning, and despite himself Rachid laughs.

“You’re quite full of yourself, aren’t you?” He leans away and gets the fresh bandages.

“With reason, I’d say. Didn’t you hear about the medal?”

“I did.” Only through the gossip of other soldiers, though, which is another unusual thing. Most decorated soldiers treat their medals with something like reverence, or deep respect at the least. But Moran seems to find it _funny_ , more than anything.

“ _For acts of exemplary gallantry during active operations against the enemy,”_ Moran says, in a nasal, strangled upper-class accent. “Impressed?” he adds, in his own smooth deep voice again.

“I’m sure it looks very fetching on your uniform.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, it _is_ all shiny and decorative, I’ll give it that.”

Rachid tapes the final bit of bandage down and taps Moran on his arm. He rolls onto his side and his eyes go a little distant, his hand exploring his shoulder.

“You really don’t care?” Rachid asks. “About the medal? The – bravery?”

“No.” Moran’s eyes focus back on him. “Are you shocked?” he asks, amused. “Am I supposed to be elated about it? Honoured?”

“Most other decorated soldiers are.”

Moran scoffs. “I’m not in it for the medals, Rachid. Or the honour, or any shit like that.”

“Then what are you in it for?”

A sly grin. “You mean, apart from the fit men in uniform?”

Rachid hides his surprise in a cough and suppresses the urge to look over his shoulder, check if no one’s listening. “Isn’t there some kind of policy about that thing?” he asks.

 Moran shrugs, still with that amused, superior smirk. “We’re not the Americans. They don’t give a fuck as long as we’re discreet.”

“Hardly discreet, bragging about it in a public place.”

“This is a single room.” Moran’s fingers touch his wrist. “I can be _very_ discreet, if needs must.”

Rachid stares down at the long, elegant fingers, the tanline at Moran’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend,” he says, dully.

“So?”

And there’s what’s been bothering him about Moran since the start: he’s likeable and friendly and charming, but there’s just an empty black hole where his morals should be. He’s ruthless, unscrupulous – it’s like he genuinely doesn’t _understand_ why people have ethics.

“I don’t cheat,” Rachid says, firmly.

Moran grins. “Then bring him along.”

Rachid's cheeks flush, and he has to take a moment to gather his senses before he manages a stern “ _No_ ”.

Moran shrugs. “Your loss.” He prods at his shoulder again. “Anyway, how long d’you reckon I still need to stay here?”

And just like that he’s back to casual friendliness, enough to give anyone vertigo. “Er... I’m not sure, that’s for the doctors to say.”

“Oh, go on. Educated guess?”

He shouldn’t. It’s the kind of thing they tell nurses, not to make any promises or predictions they’re not qualified to make, but… “Few days, maybe a week?”

Moran heaves out a sigh and rolls back onto his stomach. “Doable. Just. I might start to climb the walls in a day or two, though.”

Rachid stands up and tries to convince himself to leave. He needs to finish his rounds, he’s already running late. “You’ve behaved pretty well, though, so far. We’ve had far more difficult patients.”

“All a front,” Moran says smoothly. “Inside I’m seething with frustrated fury.”

It’s a joke, it _sounds_ like a joke, and Moran is smiling, but – it’s in the eyes. Hard like concrete.

“Thought you’d be glad for the peace and quiet, actually,” Rachid tries, “after all that excitement.”

“I don’t need peace, I need _freedom_. I hate people limiting me, telling me what to do.”

Rachid laughs. “Aren’t you in the wrong line of business, then?”

“Yeah, well.” Moran rolls his eyes. “I don’t really _like_ the army, you know.”

“Then why are you in it?”

“What’s the alternative?” He snorts. “Some cushy office job? Fucking _politics_? I’d go mad within the month. At least here I get to hold a gun – even actually _fire_ it, if I’m lucky.” He shrugs. “Besides, if you’re a bit clever you learn how to be creative with orders.”

“That sounds like something that might get you into trouble one day,” Rachid says, watching him.

“You sound like my old drill sergeant. _A disciplinary hearing waiting to happen_ , he called me. Oh, and speaking of discipline…”

“Yes?” Rachid asks, stomach doing a flip, throat constricted.

“Ask your boyfriend.”

“You’re – ”

“Deadly serious. Well, maybe deadly is the wrong word choice here, but yeah. Up for a bit of adventure?”

Rachid stands up and tries not to feel like he’s backing away from Moran. “I’ll think about it,” he says, cheeks hot again.

“You do that,” Moran says, grinning. He winks.

Rachid flees.

 

 

**_1997: Shoreditch, London, United Kingdom_ **

“It’s alright, you know,” Ellie says.

The guy doesn’t reply. He’s sitting on her window sill, one leg dangling over the edge, smoking a cigarette. Ignoring her.

“It happens, you know? Loads of guys have that – that kind of problem.”

He looks at her, one eyebrow raised, smiling. “Do they now?”

The fact is, they don’t. Sure, she’s had guys stuck at half-mast or going off before they’d even started or not getting it up at all, but this guy? He didn’t so much falter as _panic_.

“I’m not sure,” she admits, and the guy chuckles.

Things had been going fine: she’d got topless, his hand down her pants doing some really _really_ great things, and she’d kissed his neck and then suddenly he’d reared back, scrabbling away like she had turned into a monster. _Terrified_.

“So, um, what happened?” she asks.

He takes a drag from his cigarette and looks out of the window, thoughtful. “I used to have this nightmare,” he says, musing. “Of swimming, being at peace. And then suddenly I’d feel a cramp in my leg, and I’d turn to swim back to the shore, except it turned out I was in the middle of the ocean, no shores to be seen, no other people. Just me, and the pain, and the fear. And I went under, that huge mass of water closing over me, and I’m struggling, drowning…”

“I don’t understand,” she says, when he leaves it at that.

“No,” he says, with a look at her that makes her feel deeply uncomfortable, small and stupid and insignificant. “I imagine you don’t.”

She shivers. He’d been _nice_ , at the bar, where he picked her up. Kind, funny, charming, with easy jokes and over-the-top compliments that made her laugh as much as they flattered her. She’d _liked_ him.

But it’s like he’s a whole other person now. Like he was only wearing a mask.

“Have you… Was this your first time?” she tries.

He laughs. “It _really_ wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

He looks at her again and she pulls up the blanket, suddenly feeling a need to cover herself, hide from him.

“Have you had many men, Ellie?” he asks, and there’s something cruel in his eyes that makes her want to get away from him, as soon as possible.

“Depends what you call _many_ ,” she says, uneasy. He raises an eyebrow, waiting, so she adds, “I don’t know. More than a dozen, less than twenty?”

“We’re in the same weight class, then. So why?” He waves with his cigarette, trailing ash over her carpet. “Why is this so fucking _easy_ for you, and not for me?”

“I don’t know,” she says, clutching her blanket. She’s got mace in her purse, but that purse is at the door, out of reach. Closer to him than to her.

“It’s just sex,” he continues, still watching her, almost resentful. “Stupid, physical, _primitive_ sex. Everyone does it, it shouldn’t be fucking _hard_.”

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person yet?” she tries.

He throws his head back and laughs, loud and unrestrained. “Yeah,” he says, chuckling, “that’ll be it. Think I need _true love_ to get off, do you Ellie?”

She shudders. “I’m – ”

“Oh, stop looking like that,” he adds, irritably. “I’m not the fuck-and-murder kind.”

“Then what kind are you?” It slips out before she can stop herself, and his eyes focus on her, sharp and amused and very very intelligent and how the _hell_ didn’t she recognise the threat when she met him in the bar?

He smiles at her. “The murder-if-it-profits-me kind.”

 

 

**_2004: British Military Camp, Kabul, Afghanistan_ **

“East,” Jackson says, softly. Moran swings his rifle around and smiles when he spots the tiny dot.

Jackson stays quiet. From what he’s heard, Moran’s last spotter had been the chatty type, and if he has to believe the rest of the squad, Moran had purposefully terrified him into requesting a transfer.

Jackson's dialogue consists entirely of distances and directions, just to be on the safe side.

Moran goes still. It’s as if he freezes, like a TV set on pause. The only moving thing is his chest, as he breathes in, once, twice – and then even that stops.

Jackson holds his breath as well.

_bang_

The tiny dot collapses and Jackson whistles. “That's got to be a record,” he says, admiring.

“If I wanted to break records, I would have joined the Olympic team,” Moran says. He stands up and stretches lazily.

“Still a perfect shot, though.”

Moran cracks one eye open and smiles at him. He looks – well, _impressive_ , like this. But that’s Moran. Even without the reputation and the medals and the stories, he’s still an intimidating man, even to old dogs like Jackson.

There’s a new kid in the squad who practically seems ready to genuflect every time their captain looks his way.

“Glad it was,” Moran says. “Seeing how it might have been my last.”

Jackson shakes his head. “Bullshit. They can't kick you out, Captain, you're a fucking hero.”

Moran gives him a strange look. “Yeah. Right. Let’s get back.”

He slings his rifle over his shoulder and Jackson packs up his stuff.

***

If it had been Jackson with a dishonourable discharge hanging over his head, he’d be – furious, probably. Worried sick. Afraid, even. And he’d be glad for any sympathy from his fellow soldiers.

Moran, though, looks merely vaguely annoyed at the men being indignant on his behalf.

"They're fucking idiots," Roberts, the first lieutenant says. "You've got a fucking VC, Captain, you're - you're the bloody best shot in the entire Army. One fucking slip-up isn't enough to..."

"Go tell them that," Moran says, with ill-disguised impatience.

"I fucking will," Roberts says, and a couple of the others quickly yell their support. Moran barely seems to notice, looking down at his hands with a frown.

"Anyway, it's not like they've got anything solid on you, Cap," Jackson says. "We'll all testify for you."

"They've got that fucking video, though," Roberts mutters. A muscle in Moran's jaw jumps.

“You should've been more careful, Captain,” one of the men adds.

And Moran looks up, eyes blazing. “What the fuck do they expect?” he snaps. “That we stop when someone gets hurt and we all go out for a pint afterwards? This is a _war_ , not a fucking Varsity Match.”

There's a moment of uneasy silence.

They all know Moran bends and occasionally breaks the rules, that he’s prepared to do anything to protect them. But it’s an uncomfortable thought, that the hero of the regiment is, in fact, simply an unscrupulous bastard. That he’s done things that – that he really _really_ shouldn’t have, no matter the reason.

“They won't discharge you,” Jackson says. “They'll just give you a slap on the wrist and that'll be it, sir, you'll see.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What would you do?”

Jackson looks up. It’s the new kid, eyes fixed on Moran like he’s seeing god. “If you,” the kid continues, stuttering a little, “you know, were – ”

“ – sacked?” Moran says, grinning like a wolf who’s just spotted a juicy lamb. The kid swallows and Jackson wonders if he should take him aside, warn him about the captain and his charismatic ways and how the consequences of anything, well, _nonregulatory_ , would be far greater for a young private than for a decorated officer.

“You’d find something, wouldn’t you?” Roberts asks.

Moran pats for his cigarettes, scowling. “What, security guard? Bodyguard to some rich idiot? Or”-he snorts-“fucking _teaching_?” He lights up. “There aren’t many jobs around where _able to survive in a jungle with nothing but a pocket knife and a box of matches_ is a relevant skill.”

“There has to be something, though,” Jackson says. “Something that fits you. You’re dead clever, sir, you’re – you’re a fucking hero, they’ve got to see that, yeah?”

Moran’s colourless eyes turn to him. For once, he doesn’t look completely confident. Like he is, despite appearances, genuinely a bit worried.

But then he looks away and he’s all swaggering arrogance again. “Yeah,” he says, sneering. “Maybe I’ll find some perfect job where I can keep carrying weapons and being in charge and plan out missions, _and_ somehow get paid for it as well.” He scoffs.

“But – ”

“Keep dreaming, Jackson.” Moran looks at him, smiling cruelly. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to find anything I’m suited for in the normal world.”

 

 

**_2007: Hammersmith, London, United Kingdom_ **

“Take your feet off my desk,” Caroline says, calmly.

“Or what?” Jim gives her a charming grin. Still essentially the same smile he had as when he was sixteen, although it has been perfected by now, the rough edges shorn off.

“I don’t do threats,” she says.

“Your mistake, Caro.” He takes his feet off and puts them back on the floor. “You don’t get anywhere in this world without threatening a bit. Or a lot.”

“Depends which world you mean.” She flips her file open and runs over the basic facts. “Any problems with his war wounds? The shoulder, the hip?”

“No. Not as far as I’m aware, at least. And he doesn’t hide things from me, so.”

She looks up at him. In the thirteen years she’s known him, she’s never _once_ heard him talk about other people like they mattered. From what she gathered, he really did believe he was the only real person surrounded by cardboard cutouts, nothing but pawns in his games.

And now, suddenly, there’s this bodyguard.

“He lives with you?” she asks.

Jim’s smile changes a little – a little less wide, eyebrows a little down, eyes too fixed; a direct change from _cheerful_ to _threatening._

“Careful now, Caro,” he says. “Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“It _belongs_ in everything concerning your health. And his, now, apparently.”

Something flashes over his face. Insecurity, vulnerability? Undoubtedly invisible to most, but she’s seen him when he was still young and scared and angry – although the latter is still going strong, even these days.

But then the door bangs open and Jim’s new beau falls in, clutching his side, covered in blood and dirt.

“Ah, there you are,” Jim says cheerfully, not in the least bit disturbed by his appearance. “We were just talking about you.”

“Great,” he says, panting, and then he turns to her. “Think I cracked a rib.”

“Right.” She stands up and points at the examination table. “Shirt off, let’s have a look.”

He strips. Jim watches him, still smiling. Fondly? It’s not a look she’s ever seen on him before.

Moran hops onto the examination table and raises his arm, letting her look. She pointedly ignores the teeth marks above and below his nipple and concentrates on the ribs.

She can _feel_ them watching each other above her head, and when she glances up she just catches the tail-end of a conversation entirely constructed out of eyebrow waggles and significant looks.

They’re like teenaged boys, misbehaving in class.

“You’re in luck,” she says, straightening up. “Bruised, not broken. You’ll be fine.”

“Brilliant,” Moran says. He takes his shirt and starts putting it back on. "Still fucking hurts, though."

"Then don't get your ribs bruised," she says dryly, sitting back down at her desk.

Jim snaps his fingers. Moran rolls his eyes but slides off the table and sits down carefully on the chair next to him.

Jim’s hand falls possessively onto Moran’s thigh. He catches her noticing and smiles, broadly.

She’s never seen him this happy-looking.

“Alright.” She scribbles a few shorthand lines down in her file. “Ice bags and painkillers, there’s not much else you can do. No tight bandages. Make sure you keep breathing deeply as much as you can, even if it hurts.” She looks up from her papers. “No smoking, if you can manage it.”

Moran pulls a face. “For how long?”

“Three to six weeks. You’re risking infection if you do smoke.”

Jim pats Moran’s thigh. “Don’t worry, I’ll hide your cigarettes for you.”

“Fuck off,” Moran replies, affectionately. Jim just grins.

Teenaged boys? More like a teenaged couple, drunk on hormones, acting like they’re the first ones ever to discover fucking.

She clears her throat. “And no strenuous activity.”

“Why, Doctor,” Jim says, leaning forward, eyes wide and innocent. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

She meets his eyes, calmly. “I mean that if you do feel an unstoppable need to fuck him, be gentle about it.”

Moran hoots with laughter, then winces and forces himself to stop - bruised ribs can be a bitch, alright. Jim, meanwhile, is leaning back again, smirking. He squeezes Moran’s thigh. “What’s so funny, darling?” he asks.

Moran grins at him. “The thought of _you_ and _gentle_ in the same sentence.”

“I can do gentle,” Jim says, his eyes alight. “So gentle you’ll end up screa-”

“I think we’re done here,” she interrupts him.

Jim turns his twinkling eyes to her. “Gone prudish in your old age, Doctor?”

She shrugs. “I know enough of your sex life without needing to hear about it here as well,” she says, and Jim’s smile falters, just for a second.

“And I’ve got other patients to see,” she adds. “So unless there’s anything else, fuck off.”

Jim opens his mouth, but Moran cuts him off. “There isn’t, thanks,” he says, firmly. He stands up and shakes her hand. He’s got a good grip, strong but not too hard, and a warm, dry palm.

It’s hard not to like him, really.

Moran turns and marches back out. Jim moves to follow him, then stops at the door. Lingering.

She’s known him for long enough to interpret that.

“Yes?” she says, neutrally.

“What do you make of him?” he asks, looking at her, and for a second she sees a sixteen-year old boy, shivering in the cold, bravado covering up the pain and vulnerability and fear beneath, trying to reach out to someone despite never having learned _how_.

She looks at him. Dark eyes, guarded and deep, fixed on her. And the way Moran had looked at her, calm, composed, amused.

She smiles, only slightly uneasy, and Jim, unusually, smiles back.

“You fit together.”

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Jaan & Jaaneman**: life, soul. Terms of endearment
> 
>  **Shaab bakhair** : goodnight
> 
>  **Maaf kee yeeye ga** : I’m sorry
> 
>  **Aayah** : nanny
> 
>  **Ballymun Towers** : towerblocks in one of the rougher areas of Dublin, currently being demolished. (for comparison: Ballymun has been described to me as “the Harlem of Dublin”)
> 
>  **Ballina Hall** : entirely fictional, this one. Ballina is a place in Ireland where one branch of the Moran family used to live. “Ballina Hall” would be one of those fancy stately homes that are pretty much everywhere in England.
> 
>  **Churchtown** : an upper-middle class neighbourhood in Dublin. A lot nicer than Ballymun.


End file.
